Part 6: Training

"Let's go, Rider." The man at the door wore the armor of a Stander, one of the Commander's elite guards. His tone was unfriendly and curt, and Simon's heart sank.

But when they reached the small dwarven village that had grown up in the entrance to the labyrinth of tunnels that led up to the White Fortress, he forgot every one of his misgivings in the excitement of what was to happen.

He would never be allowed to try to be a Gray Warden, he'd been told some months ago. He could die during the initiation ritual (about which they would tell him no more), and such a risk of a White Rider was simply beyond conscience.

But they hadn't informed him until later that he was to train as a White Warrior. He would be a Rider, but Riders had no fighting training of their own. They learned to ride, but otherwise, they had to learn multiple forms of combat from other schools within the White Order.

And today, he was to be measured for armor! He sat patiently while the dwarven smith growled and snarled and measured him.

"Yer a big un," the gruff little man said. "Gonna be expensive." He looked at the man with Simon, who spread his hands wide.

"He's a White Rider."

The dwarf grunted as if that said everything—and it did—and went back to his calculations. "Going to have to be light, then."

"Yeessss…" drawled the Stander. "His drake was the runt."

"He's no runt anymore!" Simon growled, raising his fists. He'd had this fight multiple times, until most no longer brought it up in his presence.

The Stander stepped toward him. "I'm not scared of you. You may beat up apprentices and initiates, but you're going to learn your place soon enough."

"Git that outta my shop. You fight in 'ere, and I'll beat you both senseless," the dwarf barked.

The Stander bowed to the raging blacksmith and sneered at Simon. "Let's go, Rider." Every time he said it, he managed to make it into an insult.

They returned to the fortress, and Simon turned to go care for Pip, though lately it had become a bit boring. Now he mostly just slept and ate.

"Where do you think you're going? I haven't dismissed you."

He turned to stare at the Stander.

"I'm Darin. You'll call me 'Ser' or 'Ser Darin' until I'm finished turning your sorry, oversized lump of a stupid carcass into a swordsman."

"This should be fun." The voice from behind came from another Stander.

"Give him a sword," Darin told the other man. When Simon had the one-handed longsword in his hand, Darin added, "Well, you'd almost think you know how to use it."

Laughter sounded, and Simon realized with a growing sense of dread that the training area was filling up. Probably because of all the people he'd beaten up for mocking Pip for various reasons. They'd probably come to see him be humiliated this time around.

Well, he would do his best.

"I got 3 silvers to bet on the Rider," someone said. Thus the haggling and gambling began, the man getting multiple takers.

"Making a shit-man into a Rider was a big mistake," 'Ser' Darin told Simon. "I'm going to prove it."

He started swinging and swirling his longsword, circling around Simon, who held an easy, relaxed stance.

Darin dodged in first with a low cut towards Simon's belly. Instead of trying to block it, recognizing the feint for what it was, Simon came in high and hard above the swing, slapping Darin straight across the face with the flat of his blade.

Darin staggered and Simon didn't hesitate. Old Travis had taught him well. Every battle was business. Every opponent had the potential to kill you. Any battle could turn out to be hours long. Conserve strength. Keep your movements spare. Incapacitate or kill without hesitation.

So when Darin staggered, Simon hit his arm with all the strength he had and knocked his longsword right out of his hand, then rapped him sharply on the head with the pommel of his own sword.

Simon wasn't even breathing heavy as Darin collapsed with a clank of plate armor.

"Pay up!" bellowed the '3 silvers' voice, and Simon looked over to find the dwarven blacksmith busy reaping bets. He threw a wink at Simon and kept taking money. Several dwarves were with him, also taking in coins from around them.

Darin shook his head, groaned, and sat up. "You cheating little bastard." He stood up, albeit slowly. Someone cast a heal on him, and he shifted, rolling his shoulders.

"You'll not pull another dirty little trick like that on me," he told Simon.

Simon sighed.

"3 silvers on the Rider!" the smith shouted again, and the betting began again.

It seemed that most were convinced it was a fluke. That Darin had simply underestimated Simon or that Simon had gotten lucky, perhaps.

Darin came in hard this time, swinging viciously. Simon parried the blow easily; it was wide and undisciplined. He slammed his fist into Darin's stomach, well aware that it wouldn't have a huge impact because it was bare fist against metal. What he mostly wanted to accomplish was to drive Darin into a defensive position, though.

When Simon's powerful blow knocked him into a backwards stagger, Darin was already off-balance from a harder parry than he could remember ever having experienced. He immediately saw his danger, and then knew something else fundamental about this encounter: He was in very real danger if the man he faced decided to kill him.

But he rallied and pulled his sword back in front of him in time to barely block a blow that shocked his arm and caused him to stagger backwards again. Pain flared, but he had no time to think on it, as Simon swung again.

The next powerful blow slammed into his sword, making it ring and vibrate. Another mighty blow pushed the sword in towards his body where he couldn't maneuver it.

He forgot about his pride. He forgot about this being 'the shit-man'. He forgot everything except his battle training. He fell into the fight, struggling to keep the sword up and fend off hammering blow after hammering blow.

He pushed forward to try to stop a high blow, and found himself literally pushed across the ground, his feet gouging into hard, frozen ground and leaving a trench in it.

He was the Stander Champion, and there was no way that, in raw combat, he would ever best this man. Angered at the thought, he called up magic and let it roll out from him in a shout.

It should have knocked his opponent down. It should have thrown him and even sent him crashing to the floor. It did to several disgruntled spectators who'd gotten too close.

Yet despite the raw pain that must have been tearing through him, Simon stood facing him still, panting slightly but otherwise unmoved. But foolishly, Darin assumed that he'd at least put the other man on the defensive, and swung in a powerful attack of his own.

Rather than parrying it, Simon brought his fist up and caught Darin's arm on the downstroke with a powerful upward blow. Unmovable fist met breakable bone, and despite the metal armor encasing it, Darin's forearm shattered.

He dropped the sword with a bellow of pain, and then lay gasping in shock as he was bodily picked up by his breastplate and slammed into the ground. Laces on his armor popped and broke from the impact, and he fought to regain his breath.

"Shit-man, shit-man, shit-man!" started to go around the crowd in a low chant.

Then the dwarves took up a different cry, louder than the soft chant going around, "Ri-der! Ri-der! RI-DER!"

The crowd picked up the chant to the last man and woman. "RI-DER! RI-DER! RI-DER!"

Simon turned to look around, surprised at the unexpected turn of the crowd to his favor. He stepped away, looking down at Darin, who sat up, still coughing and wheezing a bit. Simon reached out and offered his hand. To his utter surprise, the other man took it, allow him to help him to his feet.

"Using magic was a dirty trick," Darin admitted.

"Yes." Simon didn't even try to argue.

"What in the Fade is going on here?" Alistair stepped into the crowd.

"Rider Simon is ready for hand-to-hand training," Darin wheezed.

"Really? He just started swordsmanship?"

"No, I don't think so," Darin cradled his arm. "Could I get a heal over here?" He straightened as one washed over him. "He's fully trained in longswords, and probably for years."

He clapped Simon on the back and walked off towards the labyrinth with the smith, who sent Simon another wink before turning to discuss the broken lacings on the Stander's armor.

"Trained in swords already?" Alistair gazed at Simon directly, an eyebrow raised in question.

"Old Travis," Simon said, feeling his face heat under the scrutiny of the human form of the Dragon of Justice.

"Really? No wonder he wouldn't take on another apprentice. We'll test you tomorrow and see if he left any gaps. He insisted on only ever training one apprentice at a time, rather than a class. I used to think it was foolish, but you certainly handed Darin his own arse. When did you get time to practice?"

"At night, my Lord." Simon felt like a child in front of this man, though he looked the same age as Simon himself.

"It's a relief that you won't need nearly as much training as we expected." Alistair turned but then stopped to look back. "Take the day off. Go into Dwarf Town and look around, if you like. I'm sure you could use it after months of drake care."

Simon grinned like a child. "Thank you, My Lord!"

"Alistair!" Came the correction as Alistair bounded up the stairs. "Seventy-eight years and I still can't get used to 'My Lord'!"

Simon trotted off towards Dwarf Town. He went immediately to the Smith, who looked up at him and stopped his work. "Hey, lad. Good show you put on there."

Simon tried to be casual, leaning back against the stone wall. "How did you know?"

"Boy, if I can't recognize a fighter by now, then I need to hang up my hammer and march into the Dead Trenches. You're not just a fighter, you keep yourself honed and sharp. Work it for hours ev'ry day, don'tcha?" He stepped closer, holding out his hand. "I'm Dugan, by the way. Pleased to meet you."

"I"m Simon. Thanks for that."

"My pleasure, White Rider. Made me a pretty bit of coin on those bets."